


World Where You Live

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Episode Related, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:19:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7824592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You weren’t kidding about Peter talking in his sleep,” said Neal, as if this were explanation enough for why he’d broken into Clinton’s apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World Where You Live

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mergatrude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mergatrude/gifts).



> me: Huh, all my season 1 episode-related fic is so gen. What’s that about?  
> me: It’s because of the wider power imbalance between Peter and Neal, compared with later seasons.  
> me: Oh, hey, that’s much less of a problem with Clinton/Neal...
> 
> For wc_rewatch and fan_flashworks. Set during 1.11. A million thanks to mergatrude for beta. Title from Crowded House.

_Neal: Peter, mi casa es su casa.  
Peter: Su casa is not even su casa._

 

After the briefing, as they were walking to their desks on the office floor, Clinton sent Caffrey a wry look. “You know, you had a narrow escape back there.”

“What do you mean?” Neal detoured off toward the coffee machine, and Clinton followed.

“When Peter turned down your offer to stay at your place.” Clinton took an FBI mug off the shelf and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I have it on good authority he talks in his sleep.”

“What kind of authority?” Neal looked intrigued.

Clinton shrugged. He knew better than to reveal his sources. “That’s why I’m selective about who I let stay over at my place.”

He didn’t really mean anything by it, but then he caught Neal’s eye, and neither of them looked away. Awareness curled in Clinton’s stomach. 

A speculative gleam lit Neal’s gaze. “Is that so?” His voice was pitched so low, Clinton half-expected him to step closer. He didn’t. “I wonder if I’d qualify.”

“Maybe.” Clinton licked his lips. He was revealing more than he’d intended. He tried to dial it back, play cool. “You know, if it was an emergency.” 

Neal’s eyebrows twitched up, and Clinton blinked and broke the connection before he could betray himself any further. He went back to his desk without waiting for an answer, ninety percent sure Neal had just been playing with him and would soon forget the exchange had ever taken place. After all, Neal flirted with everyone.

 

*

 

He was woken at quarter past midnight by a faint scratching noise. He lay in the dark, hoping like hell his apartment didn’t have rats again, until the scratching was replaced with the quiet but unmistakable sound of his front door closing. Then his alert level—and pulse rate—shot up a few more notches. He fished his shorts off the floor and pulled them on, grabbed a baseball bat from the corner and crept to the doorway. His body was charged with adrenaline as he debated whether to turn on the living-room light and dazzle the intruder and himself, or to confront him in the dark.

Before he could act, one way or another, a calm familiar voice said, “Hi, Jones. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

Clinton lowered the bat and flicked on the light, squinting against the glare. “Caffrey? What the hell?”

“You weren’t kidding about Peter talking in his sleep,” said Neal, as if this were explanation enough for his presence. He eyed the bat for a moment, removed it from Clinton’s loose grip and propped it against the doorframe. “He lasted three seconds in the motel, and now he’s crashing on my couch. This definitely qualifies as an emergency.”

“So you decided to break into my house.” Clinton’s annoyance was eclipsed by confusion. “I could have you arrested.”

“But you won’t.” Neal gaze swept Clinton, up and down, making him acutely conscious he was naked except for his faded cotton shorts. And equally conscious that they were alone, that it was the middle of the night, that Neal was _in his house._

His breath stuck in his throat. He swallowed. “Probably not.”

Neal’s lips curved into a pleased smile. His hair was mussed. He must have been trying to sleep during Peter’s unconscious ramblings and hadn’t bothered to tidy up before coming over. He was wearing a black turtleneck, canvas shoes and silvery expensive-looking pajama pants. The corner of his mouth quirked, and Clinton huffed a kind of indignant laugh. Knowing this wasn’t wise or safe, but—

But his defenses were down. Neal was ridiculously hot, and despite his flippant banter, he seemed sincere. And Clinton wanted him, had wanted him for weeks now. He’d been covering well, he thought, until today. God, Diana would laugh her ass off if she ever found out. 

“Promise I don’t talk in my sleep,” murmured Neal, stepping closer.

Clinton held his ground. “Do you snore?”

“Not as far as I know.” Neal’s gaze dropped to Clinton’s mouth, and Clinton had to work to keep his breathing steady. Neal crowded in.

Clinton couldn’t help himself. His hand lifted as if magnetically drawn there, whispering up Neal’s hip to rest at his waist, just where the silky fabric of the pajama pants stopped. And when Neal’s lips parted in response, Clinton leaned in and kissed him softly, testing to see how Neal would respond.

And then Neal’s hands were on Clinton’s bare chest, sliding up to grip his shoulders, and Neal tilted forward, letting his weight push Clinton back against the cold wall, and Clinton didn’t care because it was immediately apparent that Neal was naked under his pajama pants, and that he was already half turned on. They both were. With only faded cotton and slippery silver fabric between them. 

Clinton tightened his grip on Neal’s waist and dragged him hard against him, hitching up to rub through the soft layers, seeking an answer. Neal let out a soft groan, reached down to arrange himself and shoved his leg between Clinton’s thighs, and started rutting in earnest, seriously hard now and opening his mouth to Clinton’s kiss at the same time.

It was hot and sexy, and Clinton was going to lose his mind. He pushed Neal away while he could. “You know, if you’re just looking for a quiet place to sleep, you can take the couch. You don’t have to do this.”

Neal was breathing hard, his eyes heavy and dark, but he drew back at that. “Second thoughts?” 

Clinton rested his hand on Neal’s belly to show that wasn’t why. “I just want to be sure you want this.” Because whatever Clinton’s instincts were telling him, Neal was a con artist, and God only knew what lengths he’d go to, or for what reason. And because technically Clinton out-ranked him.

Neal guided Clinton’s hand down to his cock, hard in his pajamas. “I thought it was pretty obvious what I want.” 

Clinton forgot his qualms and shaped him through the sheer fabric. “You’re right. Come on.”

He flicked off the light again, and together, they stumbled through the doorway into Clinton’s bedroom. Neal toed off his shoes, stripped off his turtleneck—his pale torso and silver pants making him a ghost, illuminated only by the sodium streetlights filtering through the curtains. He shoved Clinton onto the bed and followed after, straddling his hips, holding himself up with one hand while the other burned a trail from Clinton’s collarbone to the waistband of his shorts and then dipped beneath the elastic, tugging them down.

Clinton’s gut clenched, a low dark ache of desire filling him up. He raised his hips and helped Neal strip him of his last defense, then pulled him down and dragged his hands the length of Neal’s back, into his pajamas, groping his ass, rocking up under him, reveling in the weight and strength of him, in the heat of his body and the hunger of his touch.

Something bumped Clinton’s ankle. It took a moment to register it as the tracker, but he realized just in time to not say anything, and then Neal was shoving the fine fabric of his pajamas out of the way, and they were naked, hot skin everywhere Clinton put his hands, everywhere their bodies were pressed together, and a feverish need growing with every movement, every caress.

They kissed messily, groping each other. Clinton had been busy with work for so long, he hadn’t got laid in nearly a year, and it was like his body was waking up, nerves singing, everything aching and urgent. Then Neal raised up again, spread his hands across Clinton’s chest and smoothed down to his belly.

“God, that feels good,” muttered Clinton involuntarily.

“You like that?” Neal’s voice was smiling, and Clinton half wanted to smack him upside the head for being smug, except he really didn’t want him to stop, especially since the next minute, Neal settled between Clinton’s knees and lowered his mouth to Clinton’s cock.

Clinton tried to swallow a groan but it escaped, and he couldn’t help his hands from fisting in the sheets either, or his hips from hitching up. Neal didn’t seem to mind, just wrapped his hand around the base of Clinton’s cock and started blowing him, wet and messy, going to town as if he loved doing it. 

Clinton lay back and focused on the delicious pressure sliding up his cock and all the way down again, wet and hot, Neal’s lips and tongue. And Neal’s hand tightening on his thigh. An unnamed feeling arced like a dark electric current through Clinton, filling him with a wild sense of adventure and abandon.

Neal’s mouth was irresistible, it seemed impossible that Clinton could last, and sure enough, intensity raveled at the base of his spine, in his balls, and he gasped, groaned out a warning along with a curse-word or two. Neal pulled off and jacked him, and Clinton’s control broke, pleasure and release surging, come spattering his own stomach. 

Before he could move to clean up, destroy the evidence, Neal swiped his hand through it, knelt up high between Clinton’s legs, one knee pressed just exactly right to Clinton’s balls, and he started roughly jerking off, his face a pale blur in the dark. Clinton wished there were more light, that he could see every detail, the expression on Neal’s face, but he couldn’t move, partly because of the mess on his belly, but mostly because he knew instinctively that Neal was counting on him to stay put, lie back and watch. Typical Caffrey, putting on a show. 

Then again, Clinton refused to be the kind of guy to lie back and do nothing. “Hey,” he said, raising up on one elbow. He copied the way Neal had gathered come as a lube substitute, even though he had real—and far more effective—lube in his nightstand, and wrapped his hand around Neal’s on his cock, squeezing the knobs of his knuckles and the hard thick erection underneath. “Now,” said Clinton, and started stroking, and Neal’s breath caught, loud in the silence, in the half-light, as if Clinton had taken him by surprise.

His hips trembled, sending a swell of affection through Clinton. Neal always played so cool, even a minor lapse of self-control felt like a prize.

Their hands slid smoothly enough, though it really would have been better with lube, and when Clinton bent his legs on either side of Neal, Neal disentangled his hand and steadied himself on Clinton’s knees, leaving Clinton free to stroke Neal however he chose. He kept the rhythm Neal had set, fast and rough. 

“Yeah,” said Neal. “Yeah, god, that’s—that’s it—” He broke off, panting, thrusting slightly into Clinton’s grip, and his cock tightened, and sure enough, he let loose, coming on Clinton, on his belly and sternum in thick pulses. A choked word or two escaped him, but Clinton couldn’t make out his meaning—didn’t really try, too dazed with the reality of what had happened. This was the Neal behind the immaculate vintage suits and smiling fronts. This, right here.

Clinton grabbed the closest thing he could find—a pillow—and semi-successfully wiped up, then threw it aside, heedless of the mess, and said, “Hey, come here.”

Neal tumbled down onto him, clumsy, as if his orgasm had rendered him temporarily graceless. He landed with his face against the angle of Clinton’s neck, and Clinton urged him up and kissed his mouth, generous, lazy-lipped kisses, hot and sleepy. Neal returned them, closed his teeth on Clinton’s lower lip, and Clinton’s cock stirred. He shut his eyes, ran his hands down the long muscled sweep of Neal’s back to his waist and just held him, breathing in the scent of musky skin and sex. Neal’s tracker was hard against his shin, but he didn’t care, too tired and relaxed to consider the implications.

After a while, Neal shifted. “I should get going.”

Clinton frowned without opening his eyes. “What about Peter’s sleep talking?”

Neal’s shoulder moved in a shrug. “I’ve survived worse.”

Clinton rubbed his eyes and pulled back to look at Neal, confused. “Wasn’t that why you came over?”

“I never said that.” Neal sounded suspiciously innocent. He kissed Clinton’s neck, somehow divining the most sensitive spot, and for a second Clinton forgot his own name. Then Neal raised his head, smiling. “It wasn’t Peter keeping me awake. I was thinking about you. This.”

“Huh.” Clinton thought he should probably have an answer for that, but he was half-asleep already, sated to his bones. Everything felt great. And it wasn’t as if the sex had had anything to do with Peter, even if Neal had definitely used that as an excuse to show up. “Okay.”

“So—guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” Neal pressed a final kiss to Clinton’s lips and rolled to sit up on the edge of the bed.

“Mm.” Clinton rolled onto his side. “And next time you come over, you might want to call first. You know, so I don’t smack you in the head with a baseball bat in the dark.” He said that _next time_ as casually as he could, but Neal was silent long enough, pulling on his pajamas and turtleneck, he almost regretted it.

“Yeah,” said Neal at last, pleased and light, as if he were smiling. “Maybe I’ll do that next time. Sleep well, Clinton.”

So Clinton let his eyes fall shut and surrendered to sleep, warm with the possibility of a repeat performance, and who only knew what else. With Neal, whatever it was, it was bound to be surprising.

 

END


End file.
